Dark Traces

by Martin Steyn

  Menck fiddled with his goatee. “He could’ve offered to take her home.”

  Magson stuck the photo to the wall. “If the boyfriend had just dropped her off at home, she would have been alive today.”

  “All right then,” said Burger, “it’s been fun and everything, but we have our own dockets to close.”

  “Pretoria sent us a profile,” said Magson.

  “And there is our cue.”

  “I’m sure you can spare another half-hour, Gys,” said Kritzinger. “More heads and all.”

  “Ag, come on, Captain. These profiles are just a load of shit. We might as well get ourselves some dolosse and throw them here on the floor.”

  “And who will be reading the bones for us, Gys?” asked Menck, grinning. “You?”

  “Might as well.” He scratched behind his ear, eyeing the door.

  “Just because you don’t believe in it, doesn’t make it nonsense.” Najeer had joined them, rather surreptitiously.

  Burger glared at him. “And just because you believe it, doesn’t make it true.”

  Najeer had a thin face with high cheekbones, a long straight nose and a short beard he maintained with great care—or so Magson believed, because it was short and neat without fail. His clothes received the same meticulous attention as his beard. He had arrived here from Durban a couple of years ago, and although he understood Afrikaans reasonably well, he only spoke English. “Why do you always have to be so stubborn?”

  “Tell me, Azhar, do you also believe in the Tooth Fairy?”

  Najeer rolled his jet-black eyes. “It’s like arguing with a child. Profiling is based on scientific research.”

  “Are you finished?” asked Kritzinger. Arguments between these two could go on for a while.

  Burger sighed, took a seat and crossed his arms.

  Magson scanned the first couple of paragraphs of the report, summarizing it as, “White male. Twenty to thirty years old.” He read on, “The victims are middle to higher middle class and the killer probably is too. He fits in the communities where the victims are abducted and he feels comfortable there. The first murder in a series, in particular, is frequently committed close to the killer’s home or place of work, in an area he knows well. Dominique Gould was abducted in the Brackenfell area and her body was left there. If she was the first victim, it is highly probable that this is where the killer lives and/or works.”

  “We now think that Lauren Romburgh is part of the series,” said Kritzinger. “So that changes things.”

  “She was abducted in Durbanville,” said Schulenburg. “In the evening, so ...”

  “She was a victim of opportunity,” said Menck once again.

  “Exactly. If he usually looks for victims in the afternoon, why did he just happen to be in Durbanville in the evening? Maybe he was on his way home. Maybe he lives in Durbanville.”

  “Makes sense,” said Kritzinger.

  “And then Brackenfell and Bellville,” said Najeer. “He’s getting more comfortable moving around.”

  “Both victims were teenage girls,” read Magson, “approximately the same age. The killer targets teenage girls specifically and is probably a hebephile, someone who is sexually attracted to teens.”

  “They have names for every bloody thing these days,” grumbled Burger. “Just another thing to hide behind. I can’t help that I did it. See, this clever doctor says I have this problem. It’s not my fault.” He leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling.

  Magson continued. “The victims share a number of physical similarities, particularly the fact that both were brunettes who wore their hair long. It could be important, but since there are only two known victims at this point, it could be coincidental. Physical appearance often plays an important role in how serial killers choose their victims, but not always.”

  “Three known victims now,” said Menck. “Three with long dark brown hair.”

  Magson read on. “The nature of the sexual acts, particularly the sodomy, and the severity of the injuries inflicted while performing these acts, coupled with the fact that the victims were held captive for a period of time, point towards a sadistic killer, who derives pleasure from torturing his victims. This type of murder is the result of fantasies developed over many years. It is about the victim’s suffering, rather than the acts being performed. The killer acts out a ritual where he has complete control over his powerless victim, who cannot do anything to stop him, and that, together with the suffering she experiences, provide him with sexual gratification. He has no remorse for his acts. On the contrary, he does not perceive his victims as human beings, but merely as objects, props, to use in acting out his fantasy.”

  “Used and thrown away,” said Schulenburg. “Like an empty can of Coke.”

  “That’s all these bloody profiles ever do,” sighed Burger. “Makes everyone somber and depressed. Without bringing us any closer to catching the bastard.”

  Magson continued with the report. “The killer enjoys, and probably prefers, sodomy because it is degrading. He will probably also use objects to penetrate his victims. In addition, there will be psychological and emotional torture—verbal abuse, crude references to the victim and her sexual organs, forcing her to refer to herself in crude and degrading ways.”

  Magson recalled the ragdoll with her dark violet dress and large bright green eyes on Maryke Retief’s bed. For a moment he just looked at the photos of the three girls on the wall. Three smiles. One somewhat shy. One with a hint of mischief. One bright, like her exceptional eyes. All three of them looked happy. Unblemished. As his colonel at the old Peninsula Murder and Robbery Unit had once said, investigate murders for a few months and it becomes a job like any other. And then you find yourself at a scene and it’s a child. Suddenly, it’s not just another victim anymore.

  He turned his attention back to the profile. “The killer is intelligent,” he read. “He plans the murders carefully and leaves very little evidence behind. He is probably quite charming and would rather employ some kind of ruse to manipulate the victim into a situation where he can control her with a weapon instead of overpowering her with violence in a blitz-style attack. He transports her to a location where he knows he will be safe and can act out his fantasies without any disturbance. After the murder he is able to remove the body without being seen. If he holds the victims captive in his home, he would be living alone in a neighborhood where the houses are not too close together.”

  “He may have access to a second location,” said Najeer. “Somewhere more private. Remote.”

  “Hanging victims, as the method of murder, is rare among serial killers,” read Magson. “It is unique and probably has some special significance for the killer. Perhaps there is a sexual connotation that derives from his childhood and it was incorporated into his fantasies. He will take photographs and/or videos of the victims. He keeps the victims’ panties and jewelry. These are possessions with personal rather than monetary value, and he employs the items as props while reliving the torture and murder, and also while fantasizing. If he is married or in a relationship, he probably gives some of the jewelry to this woman. Such a woman would be young and she would look and act like a teenager. She would behave submissively towards him. Their sexual relationship would include sadistic aspects.”

  “Just what I’m looking for in a man,” said Schulenburg.

  “Too bad you’re too old for him,” said Burger. Rather curtly, Magson felt, and he noticed the look in Schulenburg’s eyes.

  “You know just how to make a woman feel good,” she said.

  “What?” Burger turned to face her. “Do you want to look like a teenager?”

  She raised her hands and gave him an exasperated look.

  But Magson noticed that Burger was glaring at him. “How much longer is that thing, Mags?”

  “It will go faster if you stop interrupting
me.”

  Burger “locked” his lips with his right hand and tossed the “key” away while pulling a face.

  Magson read. “It might be useful to contact prostitutes in the area, since he may act out his fantasies on them. He will have a pornographic collection and it will reflect his fantasies. In this killer’s case, the models will be teenage girls and/or young girls who look like teens. They will be tied up and appear to be uncomfortable. Sexual acts will have a strong focus on anal sex and penetration with objects. He will also keep photos and/or videos of his victims, possibly hidden in a special place.”

  “Now that would be nice to find,” said Menck.

  “This type of killer tends to have many victims,” read Magson. “Now that he has started acting out his fantasies, he will be thinking about them even more. He will not stop of his own volition.”

  March 20, 2014. Thursday.

  Magson lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. White, with the scattered desiccated remains of mosquitoes he had assisted in exiting this world during summer. He closed his eyes, pressing his thumb and index finger into their corners.

  Mornings and evenings. That was when it gnawed at him. While he lay waiting for the alarm to ring or sleep to take him away. That was when he replayed the final days of Emma’s life, over and over. When his thoughts found Hannes. The last time they had spoken, the disbelief in his son’s eyes, the hurt in his voice ... They had stood there, in the TV room, Hannes with his mother’s eyes, glistening ...

  Finally, the alarm went off. He reached over, pressing the button on the clock to silence it. And there was the photo in the golden frame, Hannes in his black robe, degree in his hand, Emma on his left, and him on the right. He’d been so proud that day. All three of them were smiling. His hand rested on Hannes’s shoulder.

  He looked away, swung his feet onto the floor, rubbed his face. After a visit to the bathroom, he plopped down on the edge of the bed, sliding his feet into his slippers. His right big toe protruded from a hole, a worm in a dark blue fruit. On his way out, he unhooked his dressing robe from the door, pulling it on as he made his way to the kitchen. He inserted a filter in the percolator. Added coffee and water. Set his mug on the counter.

  The newspaper was lying in the flowerbed alongside the driveway again, where the delivery boy had simply tossed it over the gate. What had happened to the days when he would open the front door to find it lying on the rug, neatly rolled? Of course the boy could no longer reach the doormat, but was it really asking so much to slide it between the bars of the gate? Then again, he should probably be grateful that the paper had been placed inside a plastic bag. Magson sighed, bent down to retrieve it—a motion accompanied by a strange sensation in his left knee—and returned to the kitchen.

  The percolator was still dripping, so he sat down at the table, spreading Die Burger. Almost the entire front page was black. Reeva Steenkamp at the top. Another half a page on the Nkandla scandal after the Public Protector’s report had been released yesterday. He shook his head. And it didn’t get any better inside the paper. At least he was not confronted by the lack of progress in his case this morning. But when he turned the page, he found it lying in wait, in between more Zuma on the left and the permanent page-five-Oscar-Pistorius report. Maryke’s mother writes to killer, read the headline.

  Maryke Retief’s mother had written a heart-wrenching letter to her daughter’s murderer and sent it to Die Burger:

  To the person who murdered my daughter,

  I don’t know who you are or what went wrong in your life that you would do such a thing. But I want to tell you about the human being whose life you took.

  Her name was Maryke, but we called her Rykie. She was born on 14 June 1998. She was my first pregnancy and I was a little scared. She was such a tiny little thing when she came, but so beautiful. Just a little patch of hair on the back of her head. I loved her on the spot.

  Rykie was never a difficult child, although she could throw a tantrum when she was little. Something fierce. But she has always had a good heart, especially when it came to animals. She was probably about five when she picked up a dove beside the road. A car must have hit it. Her eyes were filled with tears. We had to bury the dove and pray and everything.

  When guinea fowl chicks hatched in our garden, one remained in the nest. Its head hung to the side and there was no hope that it would survive. It kept on cheeping until Rykie picked it up. Then it was silent and content in the warmth of her hands. The chick was weak and would not eat, but Rykie held it and spoke to it until it died.

  That was the kind of person she was. Full of love, especially towards those who were weak or hurt.

  She knew early on that she wanted to be a veterinarian. She would have been such a good one.

  Rykie was with us for only fifteen years. The time went by so incredibly quickly. I miss her so much. I wish I had just held her that morning as tightly as I could and never let her go.

  I don’t know what happened to you. I don’t know why you chose Rykie. But she did not deserve what you did to her. She was a good person. She was my precious daughter.

  Sonja Retief

  After he was finished reading the paper, he rose and opened the cupboard to get a porridge bowl. But he just closed the door again. He had nothing for Emma’s little bird. Last night he’d actually prepared something without instant written on the box, but it had been crumbed chicken out of a packet, with mashed potato. The last sliver of cheese he had given the robin yesterday morning.

  He opened the fridge. Margarine. Jam. Cucumber. A few tomatoes, a bit mushy by the looks of it. An egg carton. He was unsure when he’d bought it. He removed it from the fridge. Still a few days from the expiration date.

  He boiled two eggs. Left them to cool in cold water. Placed two slices of bread in the toaster while he shelled the eggs. On the other side of the window the feeding table was deserted. A male sparrow hopped around on the lawn in the company of two females, but of the robin there was no sign.

  He diced one of the eggs. The other one he sliced and arranged on a piece of toast. Added some salt and pepper.

  Emma’s little bird glided onto the branch attached to the corner of the feeding table and gazed straight into the kitchen.

  Magson smiled and opened the back door. He spooned the egg onto the table and looked up at the robin, now waiting in his usual spot in the white stinkwood.

  Emma had regularly bought bird seed and scattered it on the grass. For the turtle doves and laughing doves, sparrows. But it had been the Cape robin that had burrowed its way into her heart. It had started with bits of fat from the previous night’s pork chops, chicken skin, sometimes bacon. Fine egg or grated cheese. It hadn’t been long before the bird began appearing as soon as Emma had gone outside. Often he had sung to her. Even when she had been having a particularly bad day, she had made sure that Magson set out something for the robin.

  The bird watched him with his shiny black eyes.

  Emma’s little bird.

  “You miss her, too, don’t you?”

  Back inside the house he sat at the counter to have breakfast with the robin.

  Having finished, he looked at the newspaper. And went searching through the drawers until he found an old marker.

  On the way to work, he stopped at a café and bought another newspaper. Across Neels Delport’s house he opened the paper at the letter Sonja Retief had written and drew a red rectangle around it. He left the paper on the doormat.

  Six

  March 27, 2014. Thursday.

  Magson slammed the Corolla’s door, turned the key and stomped on the petrol pedal.

  “Don’t you feel better?” asked Menck.

  High-profile cases, particularly those enjoying decent media coverage, always yielded numerous tips from the public. The majority of them led to nothing, but Magson didn’t mind the odd wild goose chase, because it
might just prove to be the breakthrough. It was the attention seekers and clowns that bothered him. And those who deliberately provided false information to further some personal agenda.

  “I thought it would’ve been quite cathartic for you to rip into her,” said Menck.

  “I’d rather have the time back I wasted on her false accusations.”

  “Sadly, time is one thing we can never get back.”

  “What are you? A fortune cookie?” Magson pulled away, engine growling. “I can’t understand people. How do you give your neighbor’s name to the police as a murder suspect just because you have a feud over your pets?”

  “Ah, forget about it and rather help me think of something for April Fool’s for Casey. The older she gets, the harder it is.”

  “That is the most stupid day anyone has thought of.” Magson had never understood the appeal. His tongue was back to prodding the cavity he’d discovered between his molars.

  “You, Jan Magson, are like the scent of spring blossoms.”

  While he gave Menck a look, his phone started ringing. “Magson.”

  “Warrant. It’s Sonja Retief.” Her voice was high, pinched.

  “Mrs. Retief, did something happen?”

  “A letter—a letter came today. It’s ... from him. The one who ...”

  “Are you at home?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re on our way. Don’t touch the letter anymore.”

  “All right.”

  Wynand Retief opened the door. “Thank you for coming so quickly. Come in.”

  Magson and Menck greeted and walked past him into the foyer.

  “Did the letter come in the post?” asked Magson.

  “Yes. It’s here in the dining room. My wife dropped it when she began reading and you said we shouldn’t touch it. So I didn’t pick it up when I came.”

  “That’s good.”